


Echoes of the Love We Knew

by springbok7



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Loss of Identity, M/M, Pagan Rituals, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17495327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: Q sits in a different kind of silence.  Perched on the edge of the bench in the first row, shivering in the unseasonably icy October air, he is numb enough that he doesn’t really feel the cold.  He stares at James without really seeing him.He has read the script etched into the stone of this place.  He has read it.  Followed every line of it.He knows what he will do.  The decision was made long before he journeyed to this place.  He does not care the price.He will pay it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts), [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/gifts), [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



> [AsheTarasovich's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich) fantastic art was the inspiration for this fic. I hope I can do it justice. This is also my first time submitting solo fic for the OOQRBB, so ack, nerves!
> 
> Ashe, it's been a rough past year for both of us, here's hoping this brings a smile to your face, my dear, dear friend! ♥
> 
> Dassandre and Boffin, thank you for the support and love, and helping me to keep my sanity this past year.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thank you to [jaimistoryteller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimistoryteller), [SolarMorrigan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan), and [opalescentgold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold) for the assist with aspects of the ritual.
> 
> Beta-ed by the bril [Dassandre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre). All remaining errors and typos are mine. Please feel free to let me know if you spot any and/or feel there should be additional tags. I welcome constructive criticism, but neither support or feed trolls.
> 
> * * *
> 
>    
>  _I do not own these characters. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this piece of fan-fiction._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this fic rightly belongs at the end of Chapter 4, so here is a link to Ashe's fabulous [Out of the Flames](https://gdurl.com/614A), if you would like to peak sooner.

No medical examiner had yet plied their profession when Bartholomew Ashenbaum Thornhill removed the black-shrouded form from Six’s morgue.  It had taken him three days to locate sufficiently corrupt personages, negotiate an adequately blond, well-muscled, and expired substitute, ensure the legal releases, fudge the records on those releases, and bring both actual and substitute home in a single unit, Six none the wiser.

Another day to subtly rearrange a number of schedules to make damn sure none of the four MI6 doctors certified to perform it had actually had the time to  _ do  _ the medical examination.  And then mere minutes to forge an autopsy report -- unidentifiable signature and all -- positing that the cadaver flown half way around the globe did not in fact belong to the Double O agent known as James Bond, even if it did bear quite the resemblance.  Said substitute had immediately afterward been disposed of -- respectfully -- in a nameless grave in one of the numerous cemeteries scattered around London.

He’d even gone as far as to manufacture a proper gravesite for the substitute body, sad little grave marker and all.  A weeping angel appealed and seemed especially appropriate for the unknown man. And if, at some point in the future, some overzealous Sixer found discrepancies in the records and had the body exhumed?  Well then, its DNA would certainly not match that on file for the vanished Double O Seven. Oh, bloody well.

Having completed the tasks necessary to ensure that Bond, James Bond, appeared to have pulled off another disappearing act, he informed Mallory -- would the man  _ ever  _ truly be M in his mind? -- that he was taking a much-needed leave of absence.  Before Mallory could question him, he’d noted he was turning over operation of Q-Branch to Medina Scarliotti -- his Branch Second, known as R -- for a month or so, and that she had the means to contact him should a true emergency arise.

He needed to rest.

Unsurprisingly, Mallory hadn’t argued much beyond asking initial and brief questions.  The man known to his colleagues only as Q knew what he looked like, knew the shadows beneath his eyes were vivid against the grey pallor of his skin.  He knew, and -- in his desperation to be gone -- had used every trick he could think of to enhance the effect: rumpled clothing rather than his usual eclectic but tidy wardrobe, untended hair, the aforementioned sunken hollows masquerading as eyes.  He looked frightful. He  _ knew  _ that.

Shaking his head to chase away the reminiscence, he blinks rapidly to bring the world around him back into focus.  He is free now, for a time. Free to sit in the icy chill of the chapel at Skyfall and stare at James, lying still and pale on the slab of marble that once served as an altar but now serves as a bier.

They’d renovated in the last few years, James and he.  Restored the burnt-out husk of the manor and made the house a home away from home. They bonded over the shared pain of losing M, losing the only mother figure Q really remembers -- his own lost along with his father to the plane crash that also took any hope Q might ever have had of loving to fly -- the woman who gave the turbulent and impetuous, young Commander Bond an anchor and a safe harbour to return to.  Having seen what he’s seen and done what he’s done, Q’s not one to fear the dead. The living, certainly, but never the dead. She may have died mere metres from where Q sits, but he’s never been afraid; he feels close to her here in this space where she left them.

He found other things beside closeness in this space, this rough and simple chapel ostensibly purposed for the worship of the Christian God. 

There are signs, however, that mayhap this particular chapel provided ... alternate services ... in days gone by. 

Q found markings: tiny figures etched into the stones of the walls and the floor and minute script curling around doorways and around windows and in the floor around the altar and in other parts of the floor as well.  He’d also found books, ancient-looking tomes of painted hide protecting tanned leather covered with more of the script. The stone etchings are old, centuries old from the look of them. The books were hidden in a small space in the main house James and he would never have found if not for the repairs they were making in the wake of the fire.  Q always handles them with the care, caution, and respect they are due. He knows a treasure when he sees one.

Much to James’ amusement, Q spent many months learning what he could of the old tongue and thanked his sharp mind and polyglot tendencies for the speed with which he was able to master it.

Prior to this trip, he hadn’t had the chance to test out his ability to actually read the old language on the script etched into the stones.  A multitude of missions and crises of greater and lesser degrees had kept him -- kept them both -- away from Skyfall for months. But he has read those books.  Every word on every page. Evenings spent reading, curled up in the armchair whilst James cleaned his guns, perched on the edge of the sofa with parts scattered in a precise pattern across the surface of the coffee table in their London terrace.

The tomes were ... eye-opening, to say the least.  He’d been vague about their contents when James questioned him, claiming difficulty puzzling out the tiny words.  But while the script was small, he had understood the books perfectly. The books and their purpose. He just hadn’t known how James might react to the information.

So he’d said nothing on the matter and maintained the companionable silence between them.

And now?

Now he sits in a different kind of silence.  Perched on the edge of the bench in the first row, shivering in the unseasonably icy October air, he is numb enough that he doesn’t really feel the cold.  He stares at James without really seeing him.

He has read the script etched into the stone of this place.  He has read it. Followed every line of it.

He knows what he will do.  The decision was made long before he journeyed to this place.  He does not care the price. 

He will pay it.

His soul?  What use is it without its mate?

His life?  What purpose has it now? What good is a moon with no planet around which to orbit or a planet whose moon has fled?

He is naught but a marionette, going through the motions of life, strings tugged and twitched haphazardly by a callous puppeteer.  

What kind of existence is that?  

Empty.  

Desolate.  

Alone.

Purposeless.

Knowing it’s possible to do something about it and choosing not to?

No.

There is really no decision to be made at all.  Of  _ course _ he will do something about it.  Making the impossible possible is what he does.  What he’s always done.

He is The Quartermaster, after all.

He pushes himself to his feet, and without a single backward glance heads down the stone aisle and pushes out past the heavy oak doors.

The boom when they swing shut behind him echoes across the moor.

There’s only Q to hear the sound.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for diving in with me! I don't have a schedule for posting at the moment, but there are a number of chapters written already. Life's been chaotic for a while now, with a lot of stress, so I'd love to hear how folks like this and what folks think. Positive energy is always welcomed! ♥


	2. Chapter 2

Fortuitously -- or not -- the series of events culminating with Q sitting half-frozen in the chapel commence towards the end of September.  He is at Skyfall well before the most appropriate day for the ritual -- _Samhuinn_ \-- and has more than enough time to collect the remaining materials he needs.  He might not have read the stone-etched script prior to his arrival, but the books had made the need for certain supplies perfectly clear to him.

It starts with a rooster bought from an elderly couple on the outskirts of Inverness.  A day’s worth of driving, all told.

He’s since been the length and breadth of James’ homeland, he feels, collecting those materials.  Edinburgh, Perth, Glasgow, Thurso, Fort William, Dundee and Aberdeen.

Rowan berries.  Dried apple blossoms.  Rosemary. Mugwort. Thistle.

Nine types of firewood, bundles of smaller or larger degrees, branches, sticks, whatever he can find without making himself a spectacle.

Hazel.  Oak and rowan.  Hawthorn. Willow and alder.  Ash and holly and birch.

Applewood gathered from the tiny orchard behind the run-down barn they hadn’t yet got to repairing beyond ensuring it wouldn’t collapse onto the Range Rover.  It’s deadwood, and a day sat beside the aga in the lodge kitchen sees it dried enough to burn.

He’s glad of that aga at each day’s end.  Chilled to the core, his fingers frozen and his bones aching.  He sits near it, wrapped in the duvet that still smells faintly of them, of James-and-Q, not of just-Q as the London terrace is already starting to.  He’s dragged in the armchair he favours from the sitting room and more than once has woken to the crowing of that wretched rooster, having fallen asleep in the cosy kitchen.

The rest of what he needs has been brought up from London.

He dug up one of the little sage bushes James planted in his herb garden and re-planted it in a ceramic pot James had bought, intending to try his hand at nasturtiums.  He never got that chance.

Hazelnuts to pair with the wizened little apples he’d collected from the Skyfall orchard.

The large, stainless steel pot James loved to use for his enormous batches of stews, bouillabaisse, curries, and the occasional dinuguan.

James’ favourite knife and the iron tabletop grill he somehow managed to hand carry from Japan and South Korea.  Q still has no idea how he managed to get either past security or the weight limit.

The tiny Flamenco dancer’s fan he brought back from Spain and the collection of little rocks, pebbles, and stones from around the world.

The bitter cold allows James to lie with dignity in the chapel, resting on that icy marble without complaint.  Q had given thought to hiring a chiller lorry, but the early start to winter has rendered that point moot.

He is glad.

Preparations complete, he need only wait for time to pass and spends it alternating between the chapel and the kitchen, the frigid chill of the stone and the cosy warmth of the armchair.

The day he has been waiting for dawns clear and cold, crisp in the way that winter is after snow has fallen.

He gathers his materials and carries them to the chapel.  It takes several trips, for while pots and stones and wood may rest in freezing temperatures, the others cannot.

Once all is ready, he takes a cleaver and rope and a bowl and the rooster, and does what farmers do.  It is quick, he makes sure of that, and he drains the blood into the bowl. He mixes water into it, diluting the blood, and adds flour to make a thin paste.  Having taken what he needs, he leaves the rest of the rooster by the kitchen door. Dinner, perhaps.

The bowl is carried to the chapel and set down while he opens the oak doors wide.  The stained glass abstract mosaic on the west wall glows in the wintery light. It feels encouraging, though Q puts no stock in such things.

The wooden benches have been dragged to the back wall and stacked up as best he was able on his own.  They are heavy and solid, and he could not lift them onto each other, but they are out of the way and that is what’s important.

He takes a brush made from horsehair and willow and dips it into the mixture of blood and flour and water.  Kneeling on the cold stone, he begins to paint the script etched there with the brush, filling the grooves with crimson.

The outer ring of script complete, he moves inward to the smaller one surrounding the altar.  He hadn’t initially known the outer ring _was_ a ring, not when he and James first discovered the script.  But on subsequent visits, they’d realised that the gentle arc to the left of the altar was reflected to the right, and that the trappings of Christianity behind the altar served only to conceal the western portion of a nine-metre circle.  Three times three. He’d missed the significance of that, in the beginning.

The outer ring of nine metres, the inner of three metres, the altar corners kissing the inner edge of that inner ring.  At the four cardinal points still more rings, each one metre across.

He did not understand them at first.  There are no names mentioned anywhere in the chapel.  He thought it curious then. And now? Entirely sensible.  Multipurpose. And safe.

He understands.

Now.

It takes him the better part of the day to trace the script circling each of the six rings.  When he is finished, he sets aside the nearly empty bowl along with the fourth brush he’s needed to use, and stretches his back.  He aches -- knees and hands and neck and back -- but feels nothing but satisfaction.

The circles are perfect.

As the sun begins to sink towards the horizon, the glass on the west wall blazes with colour.  It is glorious.

Q shakes himself free of its wonder and begins to move with more purpose.

He creates four bundles of wood, each one containing some of the nine different types he’s collected, and stacks them in pyramids at each of the four sides of the marble slab, two inside and two outside the ring that circles it.

He sets a small wooden crate retrieved from the ramshackle barn in the centre of each of the cardinal rings: east, then south, then west, then north.

He takes an earthenware platter from the lodge pantry and sets it on the crate to the east, closest to the chapel’s large oak doors.  He places a rock taken from the apple orchard in the centre of it and adds the stones James brought back for him. Beside the stones he places two apples from the orchard before placing the much diminished sage bush in its little pot next to the platter itself.

He takes the South Korean tabletop grill and sets it on the crate to the south, the left side of the chapel.  He carefully layers the appletree deadwood he collected and dried within the iron grill and lays beside it a rod of applewood he cut from the tree that gifted him the apples.  Deadwood would never serve that purpose.

He takes the stainless steel pot James used to cook with and fills it halfway from the stream that feeds the loch into which James fell the night M died.  He’d almost died himself from pneumonia afterward, but no one mentions that anymore. If not for Q, he likely _would_ have died, his will to continue living lost in the pain in his heart and his lungs and his bones.  The pot is set on the crate to the west, directly beneath the glowing glass of the window.

He takes a pale yellow, glass platter from the lodge dining room and sets it on the crate to the north, the right side of the chapel.  Upon it he places James’ Japanese knife, a bundle of sage he’s cut with that knife, and the Flamenco fan from Spain.

The four crates dealt with and set up as much like altars as he can manage, he steps out of the chapel doors and simply breathes for a while.  The air puffing from his lungs is visible, warm and moist in the chilly air. That air cuts into his lungs as he breathes it in. It feels good, refreshing, invigorating.

He is ready.  As ready as he can be, at any rate.  This is most certainly _not_ his usual area of expertise.

But he is desperate, and desperation can make even the most logical of creatures a tad ... off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for the lovely comments on the last chapter. They really make my day and get me in a good mindset for more writing, so thank you very much for that! And here's another installment, you know what to do, I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter! ♥


	3. Chapter 3

Reinvigorated by the frosty air, Q returns to the chapel and pulls the oak doors shut behind him.  They are heavy enough he doesn't bother barring them.

He rummages through the pile of bits and pieces he’s left stacked up on the benches at the back of the chapel and finally locates the long matches he found in the kitchen.  He manages to light all four of the fires around the altar, the dry kindling he’s made by shaving the thicker branches catching light quickly, as he’d hoped it would, before the match burns low enough to heat his fingers.  He tosses it into the applewood stacked in the little grill, and the kindling there catches as well.

He returns to the back of the chapel and takes up a bag of salt, the bags of hazelnuts and of rowan berries, and the tub containing the mixed herbs, the dried thistle and apple blossoms, and the fresh, but dry, mugwort and rosemary.

He sets down the bags and carrying only the tub walks around the outside of the circle, leaving in his wake a thin trail of herbs, an unbroken line a few inches outside the blood-painted ring.  He starts at the eastern crate and works his way south, then west, then north. He recites the words etched into the stone as he walks, his pace measured and slow as he speaks. The sound of the Gaelic is melodious, even to his own ears.

_ Protectors of the East, gnomes beneath the earth, I invite you to this sacred circle. Grant your grace. Grant your strength. Grant your power. Ask of me your price. _

_ Protectors of the South, sprites within the flames, I invite you to this sacred circle. Grant your grace. Grant your strength. Grant your power. Ask of me your price. _

_ Protectors of the West, selkies betwixt the waves, I invite you to this sacred circle. Grant your grace. Grant your strength. Grant your power. Ask of me your price. _

_ Protectors of the North, sylphs upon the winds, I invite you to this sacred circle. Grant your grace. Grant your strength. Grant your power. Ask of me your price. _

The tub is almost empty by the time he returns to the eastern point, but it’s enough to complete the circle.  He sets it aside, and takes up the salt. He spills a careful line between the herbs and the outer ring, speaking the words of the second verse etched upon the stone.

_ Creatures of the earth, I entreat you.  I beg your grace. Purify this space and grant your protection. _

_ Creatures of the flames, I entreat you.  I beg your grace. Purify this space and grant your protection. _

_ Creatures of the seas, I entreat you.  I beg your grace. Purify this space and grant your protection. _

_ Creatures of the wind, I entreat you.  I beg your grace. Purify this space and grant your protection. _

Once the salt is laid down in an unbroken and continuous ring, and he has returned once more to the eastern point, he takes up the bags of rowan berries and hazelnuts, and begins a third circuit, placing berries and hazelnuts -- first one and then the other -- between the salt and the blooded ring of script.

_ Guardians of the East, I entreat you.  I beg your lenience. Ward this space and stay all evil within the sacred circle. _

_ Guardians of the South, I entreat you.  I beg your lenience. Ward this space and stay all evil within the sacred circle. _

_ Guardians of the West, I entreat you.  I beg your lenience. Ward this space and stay all evil within the sacred circle. _

_ Guardians of the North, I entreat you.  I beg your lenience. Ward this space and stay all evil within the sacred circle. _

Three outer circuits complete, he sets aside the remaining herbs, salt, berries, and nuts, and steps over the four circles, the ring of herbs, the ring of salt, the ring of hazelnut and rowan berry, and the ring of blood-filled script.  He looks to the fires around the central altar; they look to be burning well and not too quickly. 

He kneels before the eastern altar, knees just clear of the ring that encloses it.  Holding his hands before him in supplication he fixes his eyes upon the tokens representing both earth and James: the stone momentos show the regard James held for his Quartermaster and partner since he never failed to bring back at least one small pebble, the rock and apples from Skyfall to signify their partnership restoring the place to something of its former glory, and the plant lovingly grown by James.  

He recites the words etched into this ring:

_ Greetings to you, spirits of the rising sun.  I invite you to this circle, powers of earth. Let your stone bolster and support me.  Guard that which has weakened. Grant the blessing of your wisdom. _

As the last word is uttered, he bows forward in obeisance, and then rolls to his feet and moves to the south.

Again he kneels before the altar, not encroaching on the space within the metre-wide ring, and fixes his eyes upon the tokens representing both fire and James.  Literal fire consumes the detritus of the apple orchard wherein James played as a small boy, while the rod of living applewood seems an appropriate wand. This tabletop grill has made numerous appearances, always producing a scrumptious meal, except for the two times James and Q became so distracted with each other’s skin they forgot about it until the twelve-centimetre flames rising above the steak caught their eyes.  That night they ate Thai curry on the kitchen counter, giggling like school boys.

Q shakes himself free of the reminiscence. His hands lift in entreaty, and he recites the words inscribed in the southern ring:

_ Greetings to thee, spirits of the summer sun.  I invite you to this circle, powers of fire. Let your heat temper my spirit.  Ignite that which has faded. Grant the blessing of your strength. _

He is still for several heartbeats afterwards.  Shaking himself alert, he bows low before the altar, rolls to his feet again, and moves to the west.

This time his eyes stare toward the cooking pot filled with the lifewater of Skyfall, both of which James loved so.  He sees not the altar and the stained glass window behind but rather the countless times James made magic in the kitchen -- whether at the London terrace or at the lodge.  Regardless of how much or little he had to work with, he always managed to concoct something delicious. James claimed it was due to having to survive any and all conditions in the field, but since Q had yet to see him prepare a meal on a mission, he found that hard to believe.  He recites -- once he regains his voice, emotion locked away -- the words constituting the western ring:

_ Greetings to thee, spirits of the setting sun.  I invite you to this circle, powers of water. Let your waves wash away the rot within me.  Carry that which has fallen. Grant the blessing of your truth. _

Such a simple altar, this one representing water.  But the memories overwhelm him again once his voice has fallen silent.  It takes effort to roll to his feet, but eventually he manages and staggers to the final cardinal point.

Again he kneels on the icy flagstones.  His knees protest their ill-treatment but he barely winces as he gazes upon the tokens representing air: the knife of which James was inordinately proud, the sage he grew with his own hands, the fan he had preserved through four weeks and seven countries to present to Q upon his return to London. He lifts his hands once more and recites the words in the stone before him.

_ Greetings to you, spirits of the winter sun.  I invite you to this circle, powers of air. Let your wind blow and cleanse me.  Awaken that which has slept. Grant the blessing of your grace. _

His throat feels tight and sore when he finishes at the northern altar.  He struggles to his feet again, and moves forward to the east. He does not kneel, nor does he face the eastern altar but rather turns inward, towards the marble slab upon which James rests.  The four fires still burn steady and light him with their glow.

Q lifts his eyes to the ceiling of the chapel, gazing upon the representation of the sky that has been painted there, faintly visible in the low light, and speaks the words etched onto the vertical planes of the altar-slab itself, hands raised again in supplication.

_ Greetings to thee, spirits of the stars on high.  I invite you to this circle, powers of the sky above.  Let your radiance shine down upon me. Guide that which has fled.  Grant the blessing of your light. _

When he kneels this time, he bows low until his head almost touches the stone floor.  His hands lift once again as he entreats the final direction -- the earth below; that which gives us life; that which holds us unto its breast once that life has fled -- reciting the words etched into the base of the marble altar.

_ Greetings to thee, spirits of the earth beneath.  I invite you to this circle, powers of the earth below.  Let your glory nourish and sustain me. Nurture that which has returned.  Grant the blessing of your love. _

The silence once he has completed the recitation is heavy, weighty even.  He feels compressed and struggles upright, but he is determined, no matter how much his bones ache.

He turns to face the east, kneels once more on the rough stone and begins anew. He does not know how long it takes him to complete the second cycle of invocations, but as he raises his head from his entreaty to the earth, even the air seems heavier: the weighty pressure before a storm breaks.   He spares a thought to hope the weather holds long enough for him to complete the ritual. Whatever transpires, he doesn’t exactly fancy a run through rain or sleet back to the lodge.

For the final time, he kneels before the eastern altar, and speaks the words written there.  Moving between the altars feels like he is wading through water, pushing against a current that is not flowing in the direction he wishes to go.  He is shaking with fatigue when he completes the third entreaty to sky and then to earth. He wishes he could sleep, but he knows he is not there yet.

He climbs back onto his feet and bows his head.  He takes long minutes to collect himself, and then takes a deep breath. He faces north and begins to pace slowly deasil about the ring of script that encircles the marble altar.  

_ Spirits, guardians, beings of power, hear my plea.  Permit that James awaken from the long sleep. I beg of you, allow his lungs to fill, allow his feet to walk the earth, his heart to beat.  Please, I beg of you. _

The air seems to grow thicker still as he moves clockwise around the circle, and he can no longer tell if he is chilled, or numb, or burning.

_ Spirits, guardians, beings of power, hear my plea.  Allow James to return to this earth, let him be vibrant and full of life.  I beg you, release him from the darkness and allow him to walk in the light once more.  Please, I beg of you. _

He swears he sees glimpses of shapes in the air as he walks, shadows at the edge of his vision, beyond the glass of his spectacles, but gone when he turns his head to look.

_ Spirits, guardians, beings of power, hear my plea.  Grant this boon, give him the gift of life. Speak the price and I will pay it.  Whatever the price, I will pay it, and gladly. Please, I beg of you. _

There is a sense of stillness as he finishes, a collectively held breath even as he breathes normally.

He kneels before the marble altar, his back to the east, his face turned to the west, the kingdom of the setting sun and the land of the dead.

The sun has set, and the stained glass is black against the stone of the walls. It is  _ Oidhche Shamhna _ . 

He waits.

He knows not for what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a day late posting this, I'm a sick puppy at the moment, curled up in bed with the other half plying me with water, tea, apple juice, antibiotics, and nyquil at irregular intervals. I hope you enjoyed it. Comments and kudos make my day! ♥


	4. Chapter 4

The moment of stillness stretches, gossamer-thin like spider web hanging between the branches of a tree.

The threads of that silk snap.

A wind howls around the chapel.  The doors rattle on their hinges.  The beams of the rafters high above creak and shift under the assault.

He looks away from the window, away from James, and flicks his eyes up to the roof, looks over his shoulder at the doors.  He’d be surprised if they blew open, but that burst of wind sounded strong enough to manage it.

The roof remains intact. The door closed.  

A shriek of tortured air, and his eyes return to the still and silent form laying atop the marble slab.

The wind howls agony, screaming and wailing and foiled by the stone walls and the oak doors and the slate overheard, but he hears nothing over the roar in his ears.  The blood pounding in his veins. He is frozen, as motionless as stone himself, where he kneels on the flagstone floor.

 _She_ is standing there, on the other side of James.  Her right hand rests on James’ forehead -- still grey in the glimmering gold of the fire -- and her left upon James’ thigh, curled possessively above his knee.

Her form is familiar -- terrifyingly familiar: clad in that aubergine overcoat she favoured, a pearl in each ear and a third nestled in the hollow of her throat.  It’s horrifying and comforting and he does not at all know what to think.

His eyes travel over her, drink in the sight of her, the minute details, the little things that fade from memory as time passes.

And then his eyes meet hers.  And there the familiarity ceases, the air is punched from his lungs.  Her eyes glow. He cannot say what colour they are, what molten metal they remind him of.  They burn with inner fire, seem to swirl and ebb and flow and he is both mesmerised and horrified anew.  Time slows as that molten fire bores into his very core, burning his soul with its heat.

He cannot hold that gaze.  Whilst once he would have been fierce and steadfast in his defiant glare, now, here, his eyes slide away and time begins to move again as he stares at that luminescent pearl glinting at him on the golden chain around her throat.

So very mundane in appearance, achingly familiar.

Her voice is familiar too, but not.  It is at once a sound in his ears and a roar in his head, drowning out everything.  The wind. The blood thrumming through him. The hammering of his heart and the chattering of his teeth.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to realise the roar holds words.  Her words are blunt as always, efficient, merciless.

“Why should I release him?  He has paid his price. He has earned his peace.”

He has no answer.  He is still in shock.  She continues with no regard for either.  Some things never change.

“You upset the balance.  You disturb the scales. Why should this boon be granted?  What have you done to deserve such a gift?”

He remains mute, eyes wide and staring.  A tiny part buried deep in the back of his mind is babbling incoherently.  That part never thought this might work.

Her voice swells, roars, thunders over him and in him and he drowns in the sound and the texture and the icy derision of it.

“What price can _you_ pay, mere mortal, to warrant this boon of disturbing such a dearly bought peace?  What sacrifice will _you_ make to compensate for the sacrifices _he_ has made?  Answer me now, or this will all have been for naught!”

He doesn’t think, doesn’t question, doesn’t even pause for breath as the words spill out of him, jolted free by the clap of thunder following her words.

“Anything!  I’ll give anything.”  Sobs wrack his thin shoulders as the grief bursts free.  

“Any price!  Anything! _His_ life for mine!  Name it, it’s yours!”

There is a moment, after he finishes his declaration, when the world holds its breath.  The wind still howls outside, and he can hear the rain thundering against the slate above their heads, but it is muted, distant in a way he can’t describe.

And then she laughs.

He’s heard her chuckle in the past, but never a laugh like this.  Never a gleeful, terrible thing like this.

Terror skitters along his limbs, quakes his heart and trembles his lips, but he doesn't take back the words.

He senses it would do no good to even try.  He doubts she cares and perhaps her wrath would be worse than any price exacted of him.  

“It will cost you that which you hold most dear, that which you value most.”

He digs the hole a little deeper.  He’s got the self-preservation instincts of a Double O -- that is to say, none -- and their self-assurance to boot -- he’s the Quartermaster! Of course he does! -- but he can’t imagine something he values more than James.  His fingers? His eyes? He’ll design a voice-to-code system to use instead. His brain? Well, if he’s lost his intelligence will he even care? And not to be arrogant but even at ‘normal’ intelligence he’s certain he can still do his work.

“Fine.  I consent.  I’ll pay.” He nods sharply, in case his words weren’t enough.

“So mote it be!”  She thunders, and the sound flattens Q to the ground and the wind outside crescendos to a shrill tornado, a swirling, whirling maelstrom of sound buffeting against the walls and the doors and the window and the roof, howling and shrieking and keening against the stone.

The wind bursts through the doors, crashing the solid oak against the stone and tearing about the chapel interior.  The fires around the altar are fanned by that wind rather than blown out, and leap higher, burn impossibly hot. He can feel the scorching heat from his sprawl across the still-icy stone, his face flush from it, sweat breaking out across his forehead and beading on his lip.  He trembles, fear and cold and hope warring within him. He has seen the dead. How can it be too much to put his faith into this, now? She died. He saw her dead. He went to her funeral. He watched her lowered into the ground.

And yet, here she stands.

Hope beats in his chest like a dove desperate for freedom.  He has lost James. What else can be torn from him?

The wind shrieks again, and the fires leap higher, lick up against the altar, lick up against James.

Horror fills him where moments ago hope stirred.

He tries to move, to scramble to his feet and get closer.  To save James from the fire. How can anyone come back when their body has been turned to ash?

The wind swirls, and catches the flames in its invisible fingers.  The heat burns like molten copper, ruddy and glowing as it does in the lab when they are fabricating parts at Six, but here he has no facemask, no heat-resistant gloves, no protective apron or coveralls or boots.

The wind-borne flames reach for him, and he falls back, scrabbling backward on his bum to escape them.  All thoughts of price and the willingness to give up his own life in exchange for James’ have flown from his mind, and all that remains is an instinctual terror of the roaring, hungry flames that seem to reach for him, dance closer on the whipping wind.  With a sob he crosses the outer circle on his hands and knees, scattering salt and leaves and berries in every direction.

Lightning strikes the chapel roof with an almighty, crackling boom!  His chest seizes with the vibrations. He can’t breathe through the thunder.  He looks up as the wind screams around him, almost mocking at his utter terror, and then the stained glass window explodes out into the night, a million pieces of glittering diamond glinting in the glow of the fire.

His eyes drop from the gaping maw of the window frame to see the flames roar up in a column toward the roof-beams, spreading outward swiftly, catching lit every piece of wood within the circle: the crate-altars, the apples, even the pot of water and the stones seem to burn.

There is no reason.  No thought in Q’s mind.  Not a single shred of anything but utter and complete terror.

Panicked, Q lunges for the closest altar and grabs the knife laying there, scrambles to his feet and darts away from the pandemonium spreading outward from the marble altar, consuming all in its path.

He can’t see her anymore.

He can’t see James.

He sees only a seething wall of smoke and flame and heat shimmering before him.

He flees, scuttling across the stone as best he can towards the entrance where the oak doors swing in the wind.  Tripping on the flagstones, he stumbles twice before he makes it to the opening. A final glance behind him at the chaos reigning within the chapel and then he is out.

Crashing through the opening, stumbling down the steps and tumbling to his knees on the ground at the bottom, the knife clutched desperately in one fist.

It is knocked free as he pitches forward a split second later.  A shriek of tortured air assaults his ears. A blast of fire scorches his back, and he is thrown down face first into the dirt.  The knife skitters away across the stone, forgotten in the shock of the impact.

He expects the building to be in ruins, torn asunder.  For surely that was the sound he heard, the cause of the force that knocked him flat.

He pushes to his knees and turns back towards the chapel.

It still stands.

He has a moment to register that fact before the doors fly outward again in a shower of sparks and James bursts out of the inferno, naked as a bairn.

Q reaches for him, breathing his name, the yearning therein lost beneath the roar of the blood in his ears.

His eyes lift up, and up again, to meet James’, and Q is both surprised, yet not, to see James’ glowing like molten steel instead of icy blue.

James is buffeted about by the wind, and it is then that Q’s logical mind connects long enough to make sense of what his eyes noted the moment James burst from the flames.  

The reason why he is suspended in the air.

Leathery wings, spread wide behind him, sprout from James’ shoulders.

Q cries out in shock, he knows not what words he has spoken.  He sees the flames whipped by the wind and James hanging in the air, but he hears nothing over the hollow ringing in his ears.

Before he can stand, before he can speak, before he can think another word, blackness bleeds across his vision, and -- for the first time in his life -- Q faints dead away, crumpling to the stone at the feet of a creature that looks like James Bond.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we get to see the fabulous art that inspired this story. I hope you love it as much as I do. Thanks, Ashe! ♥
> 
> Do please let me know what you thought of this chapter. Your comments always make my day and give me the motivation to keep on writing, even when I am questioning myself or having a shitty day. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

That creature looks down at the man sprawled across the ground before him.  Alighting on bare feet, his wings fold without a thought. The tips barely clear the ground behind him, but he pays them no heed.  He cocks his head to the side, a curious owl, as he watches Q.

Neither move.

It is quiet on the moor.  The wind has fled. Not even the lightest  breeze stirs the gorse. The chapel is still and silent and dark.

Leathery wings twitch against the skin of his back as he stares down, unheeding of the cold, or his nudity, or the stone beneath his feet.

A yipping cry breaks the silence, and he lifts his head.  Eyes glow like coals in the darkness but seem lifeless despite their colour.

The creature steps forward.  Pokes at Q’s knee with a toe.   The leg lolls limply. A faint frown draws the creature’s brows together.

He looks away from the man on the ground, out into the darkness of the moor.  The clouds have fled, the tangle of gorse and thistle, myrtle and heather glistens wetly in the moonlight, drops of rain cling to leaves and stems, hanging from the spider webs connecting them.

There is a building off in the distance, lights visible through the windows of the ground storey.  They glow orange and gold against the washed out silvery gray of the moor.

The creature doesn’t make a sound but jerkily steps forward, scoops up the unconscious Quartermaster, and pads silently across the rocky ground, heedless of stones or thorns or ice.

He leaves footprints behind him in the frost and the occasional drop of blood when something sharp bites into his foot.  He neither pauses nor reacts to the pain, and within moments the blood stops. The wounds have sealed themselves.

Several minutes later, the creature stands with his burden on the coarse grass before a door.  His head cocks again to the side, a faint frown drawing pale brows together. Time hangs still and silent as he ponders, unperturbed by the chill of the Scottish night.

He is setting down his burden when a gust of wind brushes past him, and the door swings open a few centimetres.  He straightens -- limp body in his arms -- and steps forward, shouldering the door out of the way and crossing the threshold.

He stands on the coppery flagstones and looks around.  He blinks slowly in the warmth of the room; the door has swung closed behind him.  There is an aga heating the space, an immense wooden table, and a mismatched assortment of chairs around it.  He can see another door on the other side of the space, beyond which is another opening and more chairs.

He blinks again and pads across the stone floor and through the doorway.  The room beyond the hallway has soft carpet under his feet and among other furnishings, a sofa covered in somewhat ratty deep navy blue, and after a momentary pause, he approaches it and lays the Quartermaster down across the cushions.

He stands there for many minutes.  Waiting. For what, he knows not. He is enticed by the small fire in the grate. 

He edges closer.

And closer still.

His toes bump against the raised bed of the fireplace, and he stops.  Looks down at his feet. His wings rustle against each other. They spread a little then curl back in against his skin.

He doesn't make a conscious decision to sit.  But his wings are spreading again and his legs are folding and he has dropped down onto the carpet, heedless of the soot that still clings to his skin in places.  He stares into the flames, and if anyone were able to see it, they would have labeled his expression as ‘longing’.

His eyes glow softly in counterpoint to that of the fireplace.  His hands rest, curled and lax, upon his knees. His wings are spread wide, draped across the alabaster carpeting to either side of him.

He sits.  

He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on posting this. It's been a very long week for all that Monday was technically a holiday. But no rest for the wicked. Do please let me know what you thought of this wee glimpse chapter. It is a little bit of a departure from the rest, and I do hope you enjoyed it. Comments are love, and make me smile when I'd really otherwise be pulling out my hair. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

Q drifts for a time.  Not truly aware, but awake enough to know on some level he’s not dreaming.  He is comfortable, and warm, and there is the faint tinge of woodsmoke and damp moss in the air that he associates with Skyfall.

He smiles.  He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but he would bet money James woke at some ungodly hour and is currently pottering around in the kitchen downstairs, cobbling together coffee and toast and eggs and sausages, maybe even stewed tomatoes.  All the bits and bobs to make the perfect breakfast.

His smile widens and he wriggles a little, intending to snuggle under the eiderdown a few minutes more and luxuriate in the warmth and comfort and _freedom_ of a Skyfall holiday.

But as he moves, he realises two things: he is not in their bed -- the firm arm of the sofa is pressed against his face and his glasses are askew because of it -- and there is no eiderdown.  He is warm because he is still fully clothed.

His eyes pop open and the first thing he sees ... is the blurry outline of James sitting near the fireplace.

“James?”  He calls softly.  The form doesn’t move.

Why is James sitting on the floor?

What is going on?

Q struggles up off the sofa cushions and pushes his glasses back into place on his nose.  His fingers clutch at the cushion under his bum, steadying himself as best he can.

He stares at James.

His brilliant, quicksilver brain is silent for a heartbeat.  A breath.

A lifetime.

It all rushes back like the wave of a tsunami smashing into a village by the shore.  He hates that this happens. Hates it and loves it both. That there is a time before he’s fully awake when he’s forgotten that James is dead.  When he’s forgotten his heart is broken and life no longer matters.

That nothing, in fact, matters.  

There is bliss in that moment.  And ecstasy.

Quiet, tranquil peace in those fleeting seconds.

But then the moment passes, and the grief rushes up to consume him.  Reality breaks him open and the grief and loss and anger and guilt pour into him, burning like acid upon an open wound.

James is dead.

He lost James.  He listened to James die.  He failed. His failure killed _him_.  His soul has been torn asunder.  His other half ripped from him.

He will never be the same.

He will never again find joy or love or peace in this cruel and brutal world.

But.

This time, _this_ awakening, after the initial and overwhelming surge of grief, there is a difference.

Because he is staring _at James_.

James -- who is dead, _was_ dead -- is sitting on the carpet not two metres from him, naked as the day he was born.

James -- who is _now_ not dead -- is sitting with leathery wings sprouting from his shoulders, sprawling limp across that carpet.

Q stares at him.

It wasn’t a dream.

The chapel.

M.

The wind and the fire and the storm and the price and the horrifying, terrifying, madness.

It happened.

 _It happened_!

She kept her end of the bargain.

James is _here_.

Q cannot believe it, and yet the evidence is sat right before his eyes.

“James?”  He calls softly.  Gently. Questioningly.  But James doesn’t react.

Only the side of his face is visible as James is turned toward the fireplace.  Q cannot see his eyes. Perhaps he is asleep.

Q pushes himself up from the sofa, tottering a moment on wobbly legs, and steps closer, carefully, a little wary.

His fingers itch to touch the outstretched wings, but he can’t quite bring himself to dare.  Instead, his hand passes over them to gently touch James’ shoulder.

James doesn't react.

The fire is mostly embers, so Q steps carefully over the wing and squats on his haunches on the rim of the fireplace.  James’ eyes are open, but he stares _through_ Q.

His eyes are the same as he remembers from the night before, the yellow hue of molten steel, but they seem lifeless and dull in spite of it.

“James.  Hey, James, love, are you all right?”

Q closes a hand around each of James’s shoulders, and gives him a firmer shake.

His posture doesn’t change, and he still doesn’t look _at_ Q.

Q lets go and leans back to regain his feet.  As he pushes himself upward, James’ gaze remains fixed on the middle distance.  Q staggers sideways, much closer to the mantle than he’d realised on the way down.  His hand flails out to grab at the granite and steady himself, and in the process sends one of the little ceramic pots lined up like soldiers along its surface flying right at James.

James remains seated on the carpet, remains staring into the distance, but his hand snaps up from his knee and snatches the pot right out of the air.

And drifts back down to rest on his knee, the pot firmly gripped in his palm.

Q freezes, hope beating like the wings of a trapped bird against his ribs.

But James makes no further movement.

“James?”  The query is tentative, brimming with hope and fear and countless emotions Q can’t quite name.  Emotions Q doesn’t really want to face in this tenuous moment.

Nothing.

No response.

He sighs.  Shakes his head, and leans back against the mantel and considers for a time.

Tries to box up that tangle of emotion and shelve it away.  Now’s not the time.

Now _is_ the time for testing.  

For verification.  

For figuring out -- or at least making an attempt at it -- just what in the _fuck_ is going on with James.

Because it is obvious that _something_ is.  Something is not right.  James lives. Or his body does.  That body breathes and blinks and moves.  But James? The man who was James? The man whose strong hands raze and destroy and build and create?  The man whose wry humour never fails to bring a smile to Q’s lips no matter how dire the situation may be? The man whose spine of steel has kept both he and Q from peril more times than Q can count.  The man Q loves beyond anything else in this world? That man?

That man is not here.

Not now, at any rate.

Q stares down at this ... man … this James … this something ... for what feels like a small eternity.  What to do? What _can_ he do?

Is this the price he must pay?  A poor bargain, to be sure, if such is the case.  The cruelty of it all is beyond belief. To bring him back, to release him, and have him exist thus?

Q cannot fathom the depths of that malice.

But, what does it change?  He has wrought this thing, this circumstance.  It is wholly of his own making. And James is here.  He lives. Q cannot give up the hope that perhaps the James-that-was is merely hidden, buried within this husk that sits before him.

He will try what he can to find _that_ James, that gem hidden in the stone, that needle in the haystack.  And if it’s for naught? If this is all he ever has of James? Well, what has been wrought can be unwrought, and perhaps in the next life there will be a place for them, together.

He faces that thought with something like relief coursing through his veins.  Not fear, though. After all they have seen, have felt, have done, death -- while still a mysterious event -- has quite lost its ability to instill terror or horror in either of them.  There are far worse things in -- and possibly out -- of this world before which to quail.

His decision galvanises him into action.

Catching a lax and empty hand in his own, Q tugs gently upward.  “Come on, James. Up you get.”

Who knows if the instruction is actually understood or if it’s the tug that does the trick, but James unfolds from his seat on the carpet and flows upright.  Q is momentarily distracted and fascinated by the apparently instinctive shaking, shuffling, and folding away of the leathery wings. There is no visible, conscious reaction from James but the wings unfurl, opening smoothly and extending out on each side of him further than Q’s arms would reach.  Each wing is at least three metres, possibly closer to four from tip to shoulder.

They spread wider still, and Q is glad of the size of the sitting room for the wings arch towards the ceiling as they stretch, almost brushing the walls on either side, a wingspan of nighon nine metres, he is sure of it.  They are beautiful, dark, and supple, and remind him of a bat’s, articulated with an ‘elbow’ and a ‘wrist’ and a glorious expanse between the ‘fingers’. He longs to touch, again lost in the wonder of them, forgetting the circumstances that begat them.

They shake once and slide closed, folding up against James’ back with a rustle.

And all the while, James has stood, staring off into the distance over Q’s shoulder, one hand in Q’s with a ceramic pot clutched tightly in the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically it's Friday? So have an "early" chapter! Because the alternative would be one after I've slept and who knows what time that'd be! It's been another hell of a week, so do please let me know what you think of this chapter, but please be kind to me. I can use all the positivity I can get, because sadly Friday doesn't mean my week's over. ♥ Thank you for sticking with me and reading! It means the world! ♥


	7. Chapter 7

James and Q fall into a routine that first day.  Quite without any effort upon James’ part. 

He follows where Q leads.  Sits when Q presses on his shoulders.  Stands when Q pulls up on his hand or elbow or arm.  But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t track Q as he moves around the room.  Doesn’t watch or guard or do anything more than stare off at …  _ something _ invisible to Q.

That changes when he’s near a fire, at which point his focus -- nonexistent as it might be -- sharpens fractionally, and he leans towards it like a flower turning to greet the sun.

Q hasn’t been able to determine if the fire provides him some kind of sustenance -- he hasn’t managed to get James to eat at all -- or if he simply has a fascination with the flickering of the flames, or if it’s something else entirely.

Not enough data.

_ Concentrate  _ on the data.  

The rest is irrelevant -- for now.

He tests that reactivity he discovered.  Lobs things at James from odd angles and in odd circumstances.

A pillow tossed at James’ back bounces off and to the carpet, ignored. 

A teaspoon chucked at his forehead from across the table is snatched out of the air and held in the hand that caught it as the ceramic pot had been.

Water splashed at his left shoulder drips onto the flagstone floor, ignored, despite the bitter chill the water would have set in Q’s bones if  _ he’d _ been drenched in it, but not one shiver shook the stillness in which James sat.

The list goes on.  Q tries tossing something new every hour for the rest of that first day.  

He tries food too, several times.  Breakfast, half of which ends up shoved back into the fridge when James doesn’t open his mouth, no matter how many times Q tells him to, or how many times he nudges the spoon against James’ lips.

For lunch he is more conservative and only a third of the food gets put away for the next day.  By supper he does not even bother with the extra portion, just makes enough for himself and knows if by some miracle he needs more, he has stacks of leftovers from which to choose.

The one piece of good news he stumbles upon is that James will swallow liquids, if Q can get it into his mouth in the first place.  By mid-evening, he has grown concerned about dehydration and fills a mug with water. Holds it to James’ lips and tips it slowly, lets the water sit against the seam between them.  Q waits.

Nothing happens while he holds the cup there, until he adjusts his position -- who thought standing so still would actually be painful after a time? -- and the motion of the cup parts James’ lips ever so slightly.  The water must trickle in between his teeth because suddenly he swallows.

Q, the quick study he is, shifts his focus.  Adjusts his grip on that cup and uses his free hand to pry open both lips and teeth.  Pours a tablespoon of cool water onto the tongue behind those teeth and almost faints in relief when the swallow is repeated.

Perhaps he cannot get James to eat anything -- he immediately tries placing a tiny piece of bread on James’ tongue, only for it to be ignored, and swallowed whole when he trickles more water into James’ mouth around it -- but he can make broth and get  _ that  _ into James. 

The relief he feels at knowing he can get  _ some  _ form of nutrition into James is so profound he has to sit and just breathe for a while.

Breathe out the tears that threaten.

He’s the Quartermaster of fucking MI6!  He is most certainly  _ not  _ going to fall apart  _ now  _ when he has held it together through all the grief when he first lost James.  But that sense of relief is so strong, it’s practically crippling. And there is no one to see if his eyelashes glimmer or if he needs to scrub his face with bracingly cold water.

He barely slept the night before.  He needs to wake himself up after all that food he ate -- picked at -- at supper time.  He doesn’t spare the time to question who he is trying to convince.

He throws himself into action, dresses the rooster left over from the previous night, and chops all the onions that remain, all the carrots and the potatoes too.  Digs out that recipe book James loved -- loves! -- so well to find the chicken broth recipe he is himself particularly fond of. James always makes it when Q has his annual dustup with the flu.

Once everything is atop the heat of the hob where it will simmer for several hours, he leads James to the stairs, and almost causes a disaster.

He has been moving James around all day by the expedient method of taking his hand and pulling.  It has worked fine. On a flat surface.

When he steps up onto the first step leading to the next storey and pulls, James’ foot does not lift but merely slides forward and smacks straight into the face of the step.  He pitches forward, and if Q had not been standing so close, he would not have been able to brace himself and James, and the two of them would have gone down together, sprawled out on the stairs.

He has not a clue how he would have managed if James had pinned him to the carpet.  He hasn’t the strength to push James off him from that position, and James hasn’t the capacity to lift himself up.  He thinks. It’s not something he cares to test.

They sleep in the sitting room, just as they had the night before: Q on the sofa and James sitting on the carpet before the fireplace, though at least this time Q has a duvet and a pillow he’s swiped from the upstairs bed, and the fire is properly banked.  James sits and stares into the glow. Q attempts -- twice -- to get him to lie down on his stomach, but while the physical prompting has been succeeding with things like standing, sitting, and walking, it clearly doesn’t work for more complicated actions like lying down or climbing stairs.

Something for tomorrow, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been as hectic and crazy as the last few, and the next three are shaping up to more of the same. Life, please, can you stop the carousel? I really wanna get _off_! Anyway, I hope you enjoy a little peek into the first day of Q and James. Poor Q. He's not at all sure what to do about those horrid _emotions_ , is he? Because ignoring them works _so_ well, doesn't it?


	8. Chapter 8

The next day Q fails to make any headway on getting James up the stairs or in achieving more positional variety than “sitting” or “standing,” but he doesn’t let that deter him from trying.

He also fails at clothing.  Who would have thought the epitome of fancy, bespoke suits would be swanning around Skyfall Lodge, starkers.  But when Q tries to lift James’ foot to put it into the joggers he’s brought down from upstairs, he finds he can’t even lift the foot off the floor.  Not even when James is sat in a chair. He leaves the joggers over the back of a kitchen chair and resolves to try that again later.

On the positive side of the ledger, he makes the soup, and gets a fair amount of the broth down James’ throat.  It might take him all day, but he manages it.

The third day after James was returned to him dawns bitingly cold and blindingly clear.  It has snowed overnight and the landscape around the lodge glitters in the weak sunlight of late morning.  Q hasn’t felt the same level of stillness in weeks, months even. In spite of the circumstances, he revels in the sensation for a while, lying cocooned in his duvet with his nose buried in a pillow that still smells like James.

In spite of everything, he feels content for the first time in a long time.  He deliberately refuses to examine that too closely.

He stokes the fire and leaves James there for a bit, hunts out the thick wooly socks that will keep his toes from frostbite on the kitchen flagstones, and puts out saucepans for soup and broth and a little one for stewed tomatoes just because he’s been craving the delicious little treat.  He pulls out a chair and goes to fetch James.

Once he has James maneuvered into the kitchen, he hears the unmistakable hiss and pop of an overboiling saucepan.   _Shite_! He left the soup on the wrong plate.

He’s tipped the salvaged soup into another saucepan and set the burnt pot in the sink to soak before he realises that James is still stood beside the pulled out chair.  Just ... standing there. But his eyes ...

Those burning, molten steel eyes follow Q’s movements!  Q stops dead in his tracks, a surge of hope beating hot and fierce in his chest.

“James?”  He calls softly, questioningly.

No reaction.

“James, can you hear me, love?”

Nothing.

“James, sit down.”  Firmly spoken, authoritative.  His Quartermaster voice.

James sits.

Q places a mug of broth before him with shaking hands, and a bowl of soup before his own chair.

Nothing.

He tests the broth, it has cooled to warm.  He presses the mug against James’ mouth.

His lips part, even if only slightly.

Q can feel his heart thudding in his chest.  The blood must be rushing in his ears, there is no river close enough to thunder so loud.

James drinks the entire cup.  In one sitting.

Q’s hand sliding along his cheek afterwards provokes no reaction, but Q doesn’t care.  So _proud_!

A new routine develops over the course of that third day: Q leads, and occasionally instructs, and James follows those instructions.  Sometimes.

“James, stand up!” works wonderfully before lunch to get him off the carpet in the sitting room, but fails miserably after both lunch and supper to get him to leave the table.

“James, sit down!” works at lunch, supper, and in the early evening when Q takes him back to the fireplace.

No luck on “James, lie down!” though, either by verbal cues or by physical prompting.  Q’s not sure why; he almost thinks James has forgotten how to lie on his stomach or something.  With the wings as they are, lying on his back is, of course, quite out of the question. No luck with the joggers either, but James doesn’t seem to feel the cold.  Unlike Q.

The fourth day passes similarly, as does the morning of the fifth.  In the early afternoon, however, James turns his head to follow Q’s progress across the kitchen.  Q catches the motion in his periphery, beyond the rim of his glasses, and so it is a moment before he realises what’s happened.

When he does, he freezes.  Stares at James staring back at him.

James’ head tilts like a curious cat watching a mouse.  Q shakes the image from his mind. He is not prey, and James is not a predator.  At least, not in that moment.

James’ eyes sharpen as he watches Q.  He does not speak.

Q speaks instead.

“James?  Are you alright?  Hungry? Thirsty?”

James’ mouth opens.  Silent lips part, and his tongue moves, testing, tasting sound, but none emerges from his throat.

Q whirls around and snatches a mug off the counter, fills it with water, and presses it into James’ hand.

And waits, breath held behind his teeth, to see what James will do.

For his part, James stares down at the ceramic for a short time and then shifts his grip on it, lifts it to his lips, and takes a long swallow.

Q feels weak at the rush of relief that floods him, yet again.  He has feared, oh how he has feared. But perhaps it will be alright.  Perhaps things will be okay. Perhaps _James_ will be okay.

“Are you hungry?”  Q questions again, softly.

He doesn’t speak but nods his head.

A bowl of soup is quickly produced and set on the table before him, a spoon beside it. James looks at the bowl, looks at the spoon, and looks at Q, the faintest wrinkle of confusion drawing his brows together.

Q lifts the spoon and places it in James’ hand, curls his fingers around the handle, and it’s as though a switch has been flipped.  James shifts his grip a little and before Q knows what has happened, the soup has vanished from the bowl.

“Would you like some more?”  The response is another nod.

That portion is devoured as rapidly as the first.

Q does not ask again.  He is worried about overeating and stomach atrophy and doesn’t know what he’ll do if this makes James sick.  Doesn't know how he’ll manage if James vomits. The loo downstairs is small, not nearly enough room for two grown men, and certainly not when one of those two men sports metres-long wings on his back.

James doesn’t ask for more, or protest when Q removes the bowl from in front of his chair.  He remains passively sat though his molten eyes continue to track Q’s movement around the kitchen.

It is late evening when Q asks James if he’d like a little more soup before they sleep. The first word he has heard in James’ voice in what feels like an eternity, raspy with disuse:

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly belated birthday present for a dear friend. Hope you had a good one, love!
> 
> And a quick note to say that I'm not sure when I'll be able to post the next chapter. I'm hoping to have something up by the end of the month but if I don't make it by then it'll be the middle of April before I can. Life's been horribly hectic lately, 10+ hours overtime _and_ at least two days of travel every week for the last month, on top of all the other insanity that is my "normal" life. I've not been able to write near as much as I'd like and it's driving me mad, but what can you do? I hope you are enjoying the read, and that you won't mind too much the wait for more. I really wish it was avoidable but it's not looking like it will be. Phooey!
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me, I appreciate it and your lovely comments more than I can say. It really makes me smile when I get them and makes things feel just a little less insane. Thank you all! ♥ ♥ ♥


	9. Chapter 9

The sixth, seventh, and eighth days come close to breaking Q’s heart, but not quite.  Focus on the data, always on the data. Concentrate on that and that alone, on the puzzle, the conundrum.  

And most of all, don’t think about the rest.  Do not think about it. Just ... don’t. Focus on  _ James _ .

James responds more to social cues.  Follows simple instructions even when those instructions involve an additional action on his part: “Stand up” when seated at a table requires not only the action of standing but also the action of sliding the chair away from the table to make room.  “Eat your lunch” implies not just the action of swallowing the food in one’s mouth but the sequence of actions required to place the food in the mouth: loading the fork, lifting it to the lips, chewing, and so on.

James begins to perform these actions in the correct sequence both with  _ and  _ without Q’s verbal and physical cueing.

James is not, sadly, conversational.  Yet. But Q believes progress is being made and they will get there, eventually.  There is still time. He’s not reached the end of the timeframe he’d given Mallory before he fucked off north to Skyfall.  He’ll take every bloody second of it, and more if he has to, if that’s what James needs.

But it breaks his heart a tiny piece at a time to feel so close to a breakthrough, so close to  _ James _ , and yet so very far away.

The eighth day provides Q with the most ...  _ impactful _ incident thus far.  Which ... well, he’s not under the slightest delusion that any of the past few days have been  _ normal _ .

James moves slowly in all his actions, except for when he catches items tossed at his head or face.  He is slow to stand, slow to walk, slow to nod or respond verbally, slow to feed himself.

It’s another late evening snack-making session that demonstrates the most recent ... whatever it is.  Q decides on hot cocoa and toast before bed and pops the milk onto the hob whilst he fiddles with the bread.  He’s distracted, keeps glancing at James out of the corner of his eye, waiting for something. What that something is, he couldn't say.

There is a sizzle and a hiss, and he whirls towards the aga, reaches for the over-boiling saucepan, over-balancing both himself and the pot in the process when he misses the handle, whacking it with his forearm instead.

Before the scalding milk has a chance to splash all over him and the hob, before he can burn his hand on the heated metal of the aga, he is spun away from the aga and the saucepan is righted.

When Q recovers from his surprise, he sees James has one hand on the handle of the pan he’s slid to the edge of the hob, Q’s bicep firmly gripped in the other, feet planted squarely between Q and the hob, his wings flared slightly for balance.

His face reveals nothing.  He merely stares at the milk subsiding in the saucepan.

“Thank you, James.”  Q is quiet but sincere, his heart rabbiting in his throat.  Disaster was most certainly averted.

A brief nod.  Both Q’s arm and the saucepan are released and James drifts back to his place at the table, leaving Q to stare at him in bemusement.

They drink their hot cocoa -- sod the toast! -- and Q leads them into the sitting room, the fire already banked for the night.  He lies down on the sofa and pulls up the duvet as James sinks down in his customary place before the low flames. Q tries to watch him, tries to see if he sleeps like that or merely stares into the flames all night, but he slides into darkness before he quite manages it.

Amongst all the surprises Q’s had in the last few days, it is, perhaps, the  _ ninth _ day that brings the greatest shock of all.

~~~ OOQ ~~~

“Christ!  Is it morning already?”

Q is fumbling for his specs when he hears a response:  “Yes.”

He slips the loops over his ears and sees James, sat in his usual spot, looking back at him with his still-molten steel eyes.

“Did you get any sleep, James?”  He can’t help the question. He asks it every day.

The response is the same: a blank look from James and nothing more.

The bemused Quartermaster hauls himself up from the sofa and weaves his way towards the kitchen.  He is in desperate need of caffeine. Maybe some toast. Certainly a loo and a toothbrush.

Once the water is percolating through the aromatic grinds, and the loo and toothbrush have been utilised, Q turns his attention to brekkie.

“James!”  He calls through to the sitting room.  “Come on, let’s eat.”

Q is sliding the toast onto a plate when he spots James, stood a metre into the room.  Just standing there, wings folded against his back.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”  Monosyllabic as ever, apparently.

Q gestures towards the table and James seats himself.  The plate of toast is set before him.

“Go on, eat.  You can’t afford to lose any muscle tone.”  Q has been worrying James might have lost weight.  There’s no scale at the lodge. Unfortunately, the new weight of the wings would generate a meaningless result even if there was one.

James spreads butter and bovril -- as Q showed him days previous -- on the first slice and then demolishes it in about four bites.

After all six slices have been devoured, and Q has handed him a mug of coffee, James stills and looks at Q with something akin to speculation on his face.  It’s the first real expression Q can remember since James left for that sodding mission in South America. His eyes are sharper, more alert, though they still glow like liquid steel.

“Yes, James?  What is it?”

“Why are we here?”

“Here in the kitchen?  Or here at the lodge?”

“Here.  This place.”  

Well, that was certainly explanatory.  Q is a little concerned by James not naming Skyfall.

“Do you know where we are?”

“A kitchen.”

Christ!

“What do you remember?”  Blank silence answers that question.

Bloody  _ fucking  _ hell.  Doing this the hard way.  Q sighs.

Start with the easy stuff and work up from there, right?

“What is your name?”

“You call me James.”

“Yes, I do.  Who are you?”

“I am ... Seven.”  A moment’s hesitation betrays his uncertainty even if his intonation makes it a statement.

“Your name is Seven?”

“Yes.”  His eyebrows pull towards each other ever so slightly.

“No.”  Backtracking, and a moment later halting words are slipped free.

“My name is ... not Seven.  She called me Seven ... Double O Seven.  Operations Officer Seven?”

She?  Does he mean M?  Olivia Mansfield?

“That is your designation.  What is your name?”

“Designation.  Name.” He seems confused by the words.

“Yes.  What is your name?  You said I call you James.  That is  _ part _ of your name.”

“Understood, sir.  James. I am James.  James ... B- B- B- ... I do not know.”

Q chooses to address the issue of the names, ignoring the ‘Sir’ for now.  James has not called him ‘Sir’ in the entirety of their SIS careers.

“Bond, James. Your surname is Bond.”

“Bond.  James Bond.”

“Yes, that’s right.  Do you remember who I am?”

“You are Q.”

Hope is a persistent creature, even more so when joined by its siblings, joy and relief.

“Yes!  Right! Good.”

Hope is also fragile, and easily dashed.

“You are my new handler.”

“Pardon me?”  Q is confused.   _ New  _ handler?  He’s been handling James for years.

“Yes.  The previous handler gave me to you.”

“Your previous handler?  What previous handler? I don’t understand.”  

Boothroyd never handled agents, Q was the Quartermaster who  _ developed _ the programme.  What on earth is James talking about? 

“You are Q.  She is M. She was my previous handler.  She gave me to you. You are my new handler.”

Q sits in stunned silence, not a clue what to say.  Perhaps James interprets that silence as displeasure.

“I will obey, Q.  Sir. I will follow your orders.  It will not be necessary to give me to another handler.”

Q stares at him.  Shock doesn’t come close to describing what he’s feeling.  He doesn’t know what to think, let alone say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So much for the middle of April. It's been incredibly busy lately, and isn't showing any signs of slowing down, much to my disgust and a sizable chunk of horror. But needs must, and the show will do on. Please do let me know if you're still enjoying this (and still with me) as that means the world to me! HUGS!


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